The Ties that Bind
by ravenromance27
Summary: Slight AU. What would've happened if during that one incident when Nono came to visit the choices he made did more than just seal off Tsuna's flame? How would Sawada Tsunayoshi's life have changed if that one action triggered an entirely different path for the young would-be Decimo? And how would Reborn react to him then?
1. Inizio

AN: For far too long and for far too many days I have labored under the despair of thinking that I might never write again. A few days ago I spent a sleepless night staring at this particular show and wondering why I like it so when I've never been one for the idea of organized crimes and fight scenes. But something inside my head wanted to explore their humanity more than their special skills and so here I am. A willing slave to a fickle Muse that wanted its say and its day in the sun. I hope you will enjoy this tale as much as I have enjoyed the exhilarating rush of creating.

KHR belongs to the genius that is Akira Amano and I humbly bow to this mangaka's undeniable talent.

**2013 Update: I guess I'm kinda tweaking the story a bit. I want it to feel as real as I can possibly make it, knowing the biggest challenge I would have for me, other than the battles, will be making all the characters human and relatable.**

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**Chapter I:**

_**INIZIO**_

**"**_**What fates impose, that men must needs abide; **_

_**It boots not to resist both wind and tide"**_

_- William Shakespeare_

* * *

**Timoteo POV**

He understands the risks. He told himself that he did. That he understands far better than anyone else the risk he was about to take. That is why he dared to travel alone and think and bask in the anonymity of his old friend's home in the East. He came hoping to ease the burdens of a sorrowful heart and found hope so pure that it all but consumed him. For a moment—_a moment alone_—he allowed himself to dream of the kind of future that might come to his beloved Famiglia if he permitted himself to seize the opportunity cruel destiny has dangled in front of him now. But he couldn't—wouldn't be so selfish. He couldn't afford such selfishness anymore. A lifetime he has squandered away being frivolous and catered to…no…there would be no more free passes for him. He had used it all up. He made a promise. Made it to a man he already owes far too much to ever repay. It wouldn't be fair to take anything further from someone who already gave up more than anyone.

So with a heavy heart and a prayer in his soul he shook himself awake from the fantasy of might-have and could-have been. Now, is not the time to speculate...now is not the time for wishes and naive fantasies...now is the time for decisions…for facing the music and paying his debt.

Despite the sudden stab of regret and reserve that flickered like brief lightning through his soul he reached out and ignited that faint spark consigning his youngest descendant's fate to chance. In his very soul he wished, just this once, for fate to play fair and have him redeem one Vongola by blood this way. He sealed the lambent flames in his young descendant's soul and wished him a life free from their blood's burden and unpredictable benefits. But while he did what he had to do in order to protect that unexpectedly fragile innocent young soul that he found, he couldn't help but feel the slightest shiver of doubt.

_**He was tampering with fate.**_

He could never be sure whenever he dealt with people from their bloodline. That, more than anything, made him doubt his own decisions despite the fact that for once he allowed his intuition to reign over and just followed it through. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if he had unwittingly jump-started the unforgiving hands of fate moving towards a far different path than the one he intended. He could only pray that whatever sliver of luck or that famed hyper-intuition that their family relied on still worked in his favor. He wished he could offer the whims of fate a fitting sacrifice to guarantee his wish but he knows well enough that his own stained soul poses no allure.

Timoteo knew that unlike his predecessors he was not born with that rarest of blood-gifts. He was not born with the full extent of the Vongola Hyper Intuition. The gift that made Primo such a legendary predecessor has been lost with every succession that followed, diluting with every succeeding sire and heir, weakening until all that they possessed were the sometimes faint flicker that came when immediate danger came close enough to threaten the existence of the Famiglia. Truth be known, of all HIS descendant, he was by far the weakest, weaker even more so than Settimo was who had relied on his guns to compress his less-than-stellar flames. His only consolation was that he was born in a more peaceful era-_not bloodshed-free_-no, never that, not for one inheriting a 400-year old famiglia but infinitely safer and more stable than any single era since their famiglia's founding.

However, the tenuous peace he covets did not come without a price. The sacrifice he has made has yet to end. For the continuance of his centuries old name he had had to live with the heartbreak of losing his beloved wife. Of watching fate and the ambition of some to take away his precious sons one by one. Of being misunderstood by the one he had hoped would continue protecting the family he cared for. Of being constantly facing betrayal and heartache over and over again.

Above all else, the constant battles he had to wage and win. The endless years, months and days that he had to spent fighting. He certainly had to fight and keep on fighting—men, women, governments, organizations, even his own famiglia. He had to fight—god knows he'd had to fight from the moment he understood what being born into his bloodline meant. He had to fight to gain his post, had to fight to protect those under his charge, had to fight to keep what was rightfully his, had to fight every upstart new famiglia that were no better than thugs for hire that wanted a jumpstart in their status in the ladder of infamy by trying to bump off the strongest name they knew which in this case happened to be his.

The beep of the intercom gave him a welcome reprieve from the dark nature of his thought.

_'Nono, ci sarà lo sbarco 30 minuti.'_

_'Grazie.'_

_'La vettura sarà in attesa per voi. Si sarà bisogno di altro?'_

_'No, che sarà tutto.'_

A sigh went past his lips and he tried to put the last few hours out of his mind. He looked out the tiny window and tried to enjoy the welcoming view of his homeland from his elevated seat. He has missed the verdant hills and valleys of his home, his time now spent ever more often inside the protected walls of his mansion. His glimpses of the countryside has been confined to his lush gardens but even the wide blue skies that his windows offered felt limited now-constricted the same way he would occasionally allow himself to feel. With a final shake of his head he closed his eyes briefly before opening them once more to gaze at the sky now bathed in golden rainbow of hues. Its brilliant display of colors drenching the eternal images of his home in all its gilded splendor, its ethereal beauty soothing the churning disquiet inside of him like it has always done. He took a deep breath and consigned his fears to the warm Italian dusk. He made the right choice. In sealing off the child's flame he was saving his oldest friend's child from a future filled with nothing but heartache.

_**His childhood will be one of joy and peace.**_

The boy will lead a life far from the maddening, tumultuous and blood-drenched world where he and his father had to be in. His growing up years will be normal and without the pain of attacks from those around him. He will not live with the constant flow and ebb of lies and deceit from those that seek to ravage his inheritance from all sides. He will not have to learn how to manipulate those around him through cunning and trickery. He will never have to stoop to controlling others through volatile exertions of force.

_**He will live in the light.**_

He will live a far safer existence without the overwhelming shadow that might be cast of that particular gift hanging over his head all the time. He will be safe from those that would stoop to use a child to get their own means. He will not live in constant fear of what being one of them means. He will be free from the despair of distrust and suspicion. He will not grow up living under the burden of his famiglia's blood-soaked reputation, never know the pressure of expectation from a world that demands too much and gives hardly anything worthwhile in return. He will never need to know how to exist with nothing but the abyss of shadows to aid everyday he will draw breath. He will never need to learn how to live all his life concealed behind the mask of shadows and darkness.

_**He will never be lonely.**_

He will have friends—not allies or partners that turns into enemies in the ever-changing seas of duplicity and covenants. He will never be ostracized by those around him for being what he was and who he was. He will not be condemned to live up to his predecessors' achievements, chained and held back by their accomplishments—branded by their sins. He will not be held up to the standards of the biased few who would sooner turn their backs on him as betray him. He will be free of the stigma of being born with their blood, their legacy, their name.

_**He will never know what it means not to be free.**_

If he could do only one good in his life but this, if fate could only allow him one chance for repentance, then he, Timoteo, Ninth Head of the Vongola Famiglia will see this one thing done. He would trade his own damaged, blood-stained soul and all the souls of those who came before him to insure that the youngest blood-kin of their family remained innocent, untainted and free.

But he should've known that Fate hardly fights fair. Not when it comes to power. Not when it had already made up its mind and that nothing—not even the offering of a heartfelt prayer from a soul like his could pay the price for one destiny-bound child of their if he prayed for all those things and hoped they would come true hard enough…even if he wished holding on to that child's name… he should have known that painful truth when he made that Faustian bargain with fate that Fate wasn't willing to compromise.

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**Title Translation: INIZIO = "THE START/ BEGINNING"**


	2. Atto Primo

**Authors Note**

**2013 Update: Never realized how much I wanted to tweak this little thing. Usual disclaimers regarding my improbable ownership of KHR which in its entirety belong to the venerable Akira Amano.**

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**Chapter II:**

_**ATTO PRIMO**_

_**"People often meet their destiny on the road they take to avoid it"**_

_- French Proverb_

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**Previously...**

_**His childhood will be one of joy and peace.**_

_The boy will lead a life far from the maddening, tumultuous and blood-drenched world where he and his father had to be in. His growing up years will be normal and without the pain of attacks from those around him. He will not live with the constant flow and ebb of lies and deceit from those that seek to ravage his inheritance from all sides. He will not have to learn how to manipulate those around him through cunning and trickery. He will never have to stoop to controlling others through volatile exertions of force._

_**He will live in the light.**_

_He will live a far safer existence without the overwhelming shadow that might be cast of that particular gift hanging over his head all the time. He will be safe from those that would stoop to use a child to get their own means. He will not live in constant fear of what being one of them means. He will be free from the despair of distrust and suspicion. He will not grow up living under the burden of his famiglia's blood-soaked reputation, never know the pressure of expectation from a world that demands too much and gives hardly anything worthwhile in return. He will never need to know how to exist with nothing but the abyss of shadows to aid everyday he will draw breath. He will never need to learn how to live all his life concealed behind the mask of shadows and darkness._

_**He will never be lonely.**_

_He will have friends—not allies or partners that turns into enemies in the ever-changing seas of duplicity and covenants. He will never be ostracized by those around him for being what he was and who he was. He will not be condemned to live up to his predecessors' achievements, chained and held back by their accomplishments—branded by their sins. He will not be held up to the standards of the biased few who would sooner turn their backs on him as betray him. He will be free of the stigma of being born with their blood, their legacy, their name._

_**He will never know what it means not to be free.**_

* * *

**Tsunayoshi POV**

**His childhood will be one of joy and peace.**

_His mother was crying again._

They were quiet tears…like the ones she has been shedding ever since he was old enough to remember and wonder at its cause. They were the kind of tears that tore him up and made him feel so utterly helpless…unable to do anything but clumsily wipe her tears away with his small hands and fingers soaked with tears of his own. Even now, her tears always made him feel like a little child—too small and too inadequate to do more than simply be there for his grieving mother. And with her tears came the familiar surge of anger and resentment because this time…like all the other times before, he knows he can do little to stay the flow of her pain. Even when this time around he knows enough to understand what caused her tears. Knowing the truth didn't give him any comfort any more than hiding it had given his mother. Her tears continued and his frustration and helplessness grew knowing that there was nothing he could do.

_He left. He left her again._

And yes, **her**…_he left __**her**_. _**Her**__—not __**them**__, not __**him**__._ He had made that distinction long ago—he had to because he knew he couldn't afford to get hurt any further. He couldn't allow himself to feel what he did back when he was still young enough to have his heart contract with the pain of being left behind. When he allowed doubt to assail him and made him wonder if he was the cause for his mother's loneliness. _If he was the reason why the man he called father and his mother called husband wouldn't stay-despite her devotion and her love._

He had long banished from his heart the pain of expecting anything from the man that he owed a genetic debt to. The man who came into his and his mother's house like a hurricane, bringing chaos and uncertainty one moment and then leaving behind him a trail of desolation and despair. He had long made his peace with the sense of betrayal that still stabs him every time he would see that tell-tale redness rim her eyes after his periodic intrusion into their lives. He has inured himself to the thankless chore of expecting that this time it would be different, that this time, he might finally come home to stay.

He comes…and he goes…and through it all she smiles at the man she married and fathered her son with a smile that makes her eyes darken and his stomach clench in tension and frustration. He comes like the proverbial storm and when he leaves, they are the ones who had to pick up the broken pieces of each other that he thoughtlessly cast aside. What hurts him the most though is not his father's predictable pattern, but rather the knowledge that she is crying inside whenever that man would leave and that she will continue on crying until the hurting and longing subsides long enough to make her forget and live again…and it makes him wish in some dark, rarely explored corner of his heart that he wouldn't come around anymore…

He knows that he shouldn't wish for a thing but for far longer than he could remember his father's presence had been nothing more than a vague montage of half remembered memories and childhood recollections that reassert itself every once in a while—an occurrence rarer than a blue moon or an eclipse. The man was more a memory than fact and for the longest time while he was younger he could almost believe that the man with the appellation '_Father_' was a figment of his and his mother's imagination, created to temporarily ease the curious ache and emptiness in both their lives. At least, until he grew old enough to understand that his sporadic appearances into their lives rarely—if at all—caused the ache inside him to ease, that his visits serve only to wound his mother with his leave-taking, lacerating her heart just a little deeper, stealing just a little bit more of his soul.

* * *

**He will live in the light…**

_One…no, two…a few more steps…surely less than a hundred…it can't be more…is the road getting longer…? No, that's impossible…it doesn't matter…I still have to go home…she's waiting for me and I can't—I won't make her wait…_

_Home… I'm going home…That's all that matter…i'll be safe…home…is…safe_

_Mom…she'll be there…Mom will be…there…I will be with Mom and she'll make things all better…she'll take care of the gashes and the lashes and she'll-!_

_Worry. She'll ask me questions and I can't lie and she will be worried._

_She'll be worried. I can't make her worry about me…_

He can't go home…not like this…not looking like this…she'll worry and she'll be sad again and he can't—won't let himself cause her even more anxiety. He can't be like him…he _will not be_ like him…he won't give her any more reason to cry. She's had enough of that…enough reasons to cry and he won't add more to the growing list of things that caused her pain and concern.

_I can take care of this…_

A quick harried inspection, that's all that it took for him to see his current state through her eyes—his clothes were rumpled and dirty from the tight grasp of big, fumbling hands that shook him for being where he wasn't supposed to be. His knees were scrapped, one of the cuts deeper than the rest and is starting to bleed again…he could feel his knees trembling from the strain of keeping himself upright…his palms were stinging from the fall he just took when those boys pushed him out of the way when he tried to get up on the teeter-totter. His arms were sore and he would no doubt be sporting a colorful array of finger marks in the days to come. His chest hurt too, and that means there might be a bruise there somewhere but that would fade by tomorrow once he takes a bath later tonight…

He leaned against the nearby wall and slowly slid down, legs splayed in front of him, his knees throbbing and trembling far too much for him to exert any further effort to tuck them tidily into his body, his hands falling to his side, scratched raw and already filled with small cuts and deeper lacerations from his poor attempt to break his fall, blood pooling into tiny rivulets along the many tiny creases of his palm.

_I can't go home…not yet…I need to clean up…I need…._

A place to clean up. Somewhere near, somewhere like…the park! Yes, The park… there…the park has restrooms…with water and sinks and soap…he could get cleaned up…Yes….that's it…The park will work…he could think while he cleaned up…he'll be late but that's okay…the park will be a good excuse…he can tell her that he fell…it won't be a complete lie…then she wouldn't have to know…she wouldn't have to be sad and cry…she'll shake her head and smile at him and tell him that he shouldn't be so clumsy all the time and then she'll forget about him and she'll be okay….

_Yeah…the park…will work…_

Now if he could only find the strength to stand up and get going then everything will be fine. For now, at least.

* * *

**He will never be lonely.**

A box…a closet….he wonders what other place they would find to stick him in…he's so small that his size never seemed to create any problems for his tormentors only a seemingly endless list of options.

_At least the school doesn't have lockers big enough to stick a person in or else I really would be in trouble then._

He guess that he should be thankful for small mercies. That and the fact that the janitor is thankfully professional enough not to leave the utility closet locked at all time. He is well aware that it could've been worse. The garbage shoot isn't accessible from the student's area and he could always find some escape from the bullies when he reaches the roof—if he's lucky enough to reach it in time. There are hall monitors patrolling the corridors most hour of class and the teachers still notice when he's not around…well, most of the time anyways.

But today….unfortunately he wasn't that lucky. They jumped him right after fourth period and his classmates' raucous laughter provided just the right cover for teachers to be distracted, giving the bullies time to grab a hold of him and make off with his lunch money. When they found out exactly how scant his allowance amounted to, they decided to stick him in the first convenient place they could find, in this instance the narrow single storage locker where they kept cleaning supplies. He could still hear their loud jeering laughter echoing loudly as they walked away.

_Thank god my mother likes cooking and making me a bento every single day since kindergarten or I would've died of malnutrition from all the times I didn't have a single Sen left to my name._

He tried to shift and wriggle to find more room when his elbow struck something metallic and the sharp edge of pain reverberated excruciatingly all along his arm. He winced and tried to shift his weight until the throbbing in his limbs eased just the tiniest bit. The pain in his arm didn't buy enough room to do more than ease his back a bit more along the panels of the storage closet but least he didn't have to sit with his knees shoved precariously under his own chin. The closet was barely big enough to keep a large bucket and a broom. It was certainly not big enough to accommodate a kid that's been unceremoniously crammed into its limited confines. If he had room to spare in his head, he might've felt sorry for the closet for having the unfortunate luck of being the convenient recipient of the bullies 'victims'.

Still it could've been worse. The bullies once found the schedule for garbage pick-up and decided that he needed the _'extra smelly'_ lesson to persuade him to give up his snacks. He had to endure the smell through two classes until his mother finally came to pick him up. The bullying toned down after his mother lodged a formal complaint but by then something else had occurred and he didn't need bullies to abuse him anymore. By the time middle school rolled in, he had an established routine and a nickname that sealed his fate for the next foreseeable future.

* * *

**He will never know what it means not to be free.**

_Dame Tsuna…_

Yeah…he guesses that's all he could ever amount to be and whatever it was would always be '_dame_'. It's not the most flattering of nicknames and certainly not the most enjoyable of reputations to be had but there is was and there's certainly nothing he could do about it. Certainly nothing he has done in the past made any difference in the eyes of the kids around him. To them, every incident has just proven over and over again that they gave him the right sobriquet. He will never amount to anything good.

_But better a bad nickname than no nickname right? Better be seen and ridiculed and remembered than bullied and broken and forgotten and unknown, right?_

That's what he tells himself every day when he steels himself against one more morning in school, against one more subject he knows he will inevitably fail. But there are days when even his acceptance couldn't tide him over. When he wishes just once…_just once_...he wished the world could stop picking up on him and all the other bullied kids in school and just let things be. He wished for one day to wake up one morning and just be like everyone else—just a simple, ordinary student—just a faceless, nameless member of the crowd, no bad reputation to live down and no impending sense of failure just waiting in the wings to yank the rug of complacency from right beneath his feet. He wished with all his being that for once he could wake up to a morning and know that something good will happen to him.

And in the very depths of his heart he prays and years that just once…just once, he wished he could have someone to come and help him out of the dark…not because they accidentally found him or because they came looking for the bucket and found him instead…no, just once, he wish someone would open the door and tell him that they had been looking all over for him…that they opened the door hoping that he would be the one waiting on the other side.

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**Title Translation: ATTO PRIMO = "THE FIRST ACT"**


	3. Le Ombre Scure

Authors Note: As ever, KHR is not mine. I am merely a poor tale-teller that uses these unique characters for my poor attempt at writing. Apologies for the late update. At times, the most challenging aspect of writing is viewing it from the reader's perspective. It is a frightening realization.

Note: The first half is a dialogue between two very opinionated individuals. Please enjoy the exchange and draw your conclusions regarding their identity.

2013 Update: The exchange at the beginning of this story—I know I deliberately didn't put any names or descriptions. I did that deliberately. But somewhere along the way, when I was reading and re-reading it, I wonder if I assigned the sequence wrong. Oh well, that's why we edit and re-edit and tweak until we can achieve something that as close to satisfying as possible.

_**Chapter 3:**_

**LE OMBRE SCURE**

_**What are kings, when regiment is gone, but perfect shadows in a sunshine day?**_

_- Christopher Marlowe_

He is a contract killer. The very best out there. The very best—ever. The greatest contract killer to ever walk face of earth. He is the best at what he does and his reputation is proof positive that he has the skills necessary to put money where his mouth is. When he says a job is done—there is no maybe, can, possibly or will. There is only the promise that it shall be done.

He is bound by duty to see things through. He is bound by his reputation to succeed. He is bound by his obligations to make sure that his assignments turn out the best way possible. He, however, is not under any law that could force him to make things any easier for his target or to like the assignment given to him.

When the summons came he had been immersed in the training of the Tenth Boss of the Cavallone Famiglia. The task proved to be one exercise in patience and creativity since he himself had never needed a tutor for all the skills he had acquired over the years. It certainly was amusing developing an even wider repertoire of tortures designed to be as educational as possible while being mentally and psychologically traumatizing as well. It was icing on his cake that he gets to be paid an obscene amount of money to do it.

The Cavallone immediately gave way but he insisted on finishing the job. It would not do to leave a job—any job—half finished. It speaks of unprofessional behavior and stinks of incompetence and he would be damned before he allowed that word to be associated with his name. He has a reputation to maintain.

He will answer the summons when he is good and ready and not a moment before. He will accept the assignment, that much is a given. He is, however, hardly ever careless. He will meet with his patron before embarking on this new job.

This is the one job he couldn't afford to be a miss. It's an assignment that needs the perfect shot. After all, it's his reputation on the line.

_You know our laws and even someone like you is not above it. You can't refuse. You know that._

**No, I don't know that and even if I did I will still tell you the same thing. I will tell you now that you're being a bloody fool.**

_A decision has been made and it cannot be undone or unmade. My hands are tied. Despite my plans and machinations it has come to this. There is no other way._

**You are a fool. What were you thinking? You can't bring someone like that into our world—are you setting him up to fail or worse—get killed?**

_He won't be killed. _

**He will be. If you insist on doing this he will end up on a slab faster than you can say **_**Omerta**_**. You're bringing a paschal lamb to the slaughter and you expect me to give it fangs to fight and learn how to be a predator.**

_He has the ability to grow fangs on his own—you can teach him to be a predator, to have fangs. He can learn—!_

**But not by choice! Don't you understand? This should not be a fate for someone like that. In this world its kill or be killed. This is a world that uses you up and then throws you away when your usefulness, your cleverness—your gift—is no longer a viable commodity. You're asking me to take something worthless and unknown and make it to be as valuable as the crown jewel in a world where even lives can become something you barter with. **

_Then make him invaluable. Make it so that he will become priceless._

**Value only exists for those ruthless enough, powerful enough, wealthy enough to bid, buy or bribe their way to dignity, honor or life. And not even someone like me could designate someone's pricelessness. No one man can do all that.**

_Then make him indispensible._

**No one is indispensible—not me—not even you.**

_Then make him be our world's sole exemption. Teach him how to be the very best—mold him until there is no one like him, no one that can match him, no one that can takes his place._

**A man like that is born—a man like that is forged at the heart of danger, of bloodshed, of conflict, of things no one innocent should ever have to see. To make someone like that-!**

_He is of __**HIS**__ blood. Do you understand? He is the only one left who bears his blood. The council has made its decision. I have made my decision. The powers that be will make its decision when the time comes and they will never accept anyone who doesn't have HIS blood. He is the most suitable._

**Don't give me that excuse. Even He never dared to use the excuse of blood to rule over those who came to him. You can't use such a flimsy excuse to yank the rug from someone's feet, tossing them into a cage filled with wolves.**

_He is of our blood. He shares our blood, our name, our burden of fate._

**The incidental details of his birth don't give you the right to take away all that he has, all that he is, all that he could be if he is left as he is.**

_He is of our world. He belongs with us._

**He was not meant for your world. He belongs in the light. And in the light this one should remain. You tried to do that didn't you? What made you change your mind?**

_Our world has been dark for far too long. Perhaps he is the light we all seek._

**All that you are telling me is that I have to taint yet another soul—worse off—a child that bears the last slivers of his untainted soul. I thought you already spared this one—didn't you promise him?**

_I already vowed to atone and continue to atone for breaking my promise. I cannot shield him forever, no matter that I tried and failed. We need him._

**The question lies in the fact that you fail to consider—does he need you?**

_He will learn to need us._ _He must._

**You don't know that. You can't guarantee something will happen just because you desire it.**

_I can hope. And for the longest time I didn't even have that until he came along. Have you any idea what I've sacrificed for such a hope?_

**He is not your hope—he is your last resort.**

_Why can't he be both?_

**Because you can't be a sacrifice and a hero at the same time. There are no more martyrs left in the world.**

_Why not?_

**Because we call them fools. And because the likes of you and me kills them off.**

He is the best in what he does. People from all over come to seek his expertise. People with power, with wealth, with influence. People come to him because of the things he can do and do very well. But seldom do people come to him for advice. And never in his career has anyone sought him to create hope for a world that chews up innocence and spits out dreamers by the bucketful. For the first time since he could remember, he found himself looking forward to something new.

Title Translation: LE OMBRE SCURE = "DARK SHADOWS"


	4. Le Acque Profonde

Authors Note: The usual disclaimer applies. Amano Akira has sole custody to the magic that is KHR. This update is for the kind reviewers who obliged me by guessing the players who were speaking-even if you only did so in your head. Forgive an absent-minded scribe.

**2013 Update: Tweaking…tweaking…finding more things to tinker with. Do tell if I missed anything.**

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_**Chapter 4:**_

**LE ACQUE PROFONDE**

_**Man is least himself when he talks in his own person.**_

_**Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth.**_

_- Oscar Wilde_

* * *

BA-DUMP...

**He's coming…he needs you…**

_That voice again…ah…that voice was calling out to me again…but I don't understand what the voice means…who was coming? And why would he need me? This is just a dream…_

BA-DUMP...

**Someone is coming….he's coming...he will come soon…you need to be ready…**

_Ready for what..? Why should I be ready? No one expects anything from me…whoever it is, he's mistaken…He doesn't need me…no one has needed or wanted me for anything…no one except Okaa-san. No one wants me for anything…not anymore. You're wrong you know…this dream is wrong…so leave me alone…._

BA-DUMP...

**Something's changing...someone...out there...somewhere...coming close…**

_Stop talking nonsense to me! I don't know who you are…I don't know what it is that you want from me but whatever it is I think you're wrong. You're not even making any sense so just leave me be! Do you hear me? Leave me alone!_

BA-DUMP...

**Come on...wake up...you need to wake up and pay attention...come on...wake up...!**

_I don't want to wake up yet! I'm tired! I tried paying attention the last time and all it did was get me in trouble! I don't want to hear you in my head anymore! Just leave me alone!_

**Wake up...! I told you he's coming. He's near…he will be here soon…he needs you…you need to wake up!**

_I don't want to listen to you okay! You're just a weird part of my dreams and I wish for once you'd make sense but you won't and I told you I just want to sleep some more!_

**Stubborn…Wake up, NOW!**

"I'm up! I'm up!"

He gawked, wide-eyed and blinking furiously at his mother, startled to see her up close, close enough for him to smell her familiar powdery scent and see the clear curious gleam in her brown gaze as she leaned over him. He glanced around his room, his eyesight still blurry with sleep darting erratically at everything and nothing, his racing brain still drowning in adrenaline. The rush inside his head made him want to map out places where he could run, places he could hide, places he could defend. His overstimulated brain was forcing him to assess some implied or imagined threat created by that eerie voice in his head. His hands ached as he clutched the blankets tightly in his fists, his heart slamming in painful throbbing beats, as if he just finished a marathon.

"Tsu-kun? Tsu-kun! What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

His mother's voice broke the last vestiges of the dream that held him. Between one breath and another his body lost all of its tension until it became like it was never there. His body, uncoordinated and clumsy at best, floundered and slid off the bed in an inglorious heap like a marionette with its string cut abruptly. He closed his eyes—whether to capture what once again deserted him or to take stock of himself—he couldn't really tell. His breath hasn't had time to even out yet but remembering the look in his mother's eyes called out to him, reminding him that he ought to say something and so he forced numbed lips to move, his voice to work. His words, already clumsy and hesitant at best, stuttered past his trembling lips in his haste to get them out.

"M-mom...w-wha-what are you doing in here?'

'Me? Oh Tsu-kun! Mama just came up to wake you up."

His mother looked him over, running her hands through the wild mane that was his hair and for a moment or two, he allowed himself to simply enjoy her touch and gain comfort from her warmth. He felt the hammering of his heart slowly, steadily winding down until it finally calmed to something resembling normal. His aching fingers final unclenched, sluggishly unfurling one finger at a time until the sheet slid free from his grasp. Between a yawn and another deep breath, he was back to normal and he felt the seductive allure of sleep beckon to him again. He was just about to succumb when her words as she stepped out of his room finally registered inside is mushed up mind.

"Tsu-kun! You're going to be late if you don't get a move on, sleepy head."

'What? N-no...w-what time is it-? Hiiiiiiiieee ! I'm going to be late! Mo-ooo-m!

Nana watched her son dash out of his room, her ears attuned to the exact moment he, like usual, tripped for some reason on that particular step.

_Ah…there he goes…oomph!...Tsu-kun, ta ra…!_

He went tumbling in a flurry of tangled limbs and clothing down the stairs as per his daily entrance to the first floor of their humble home. She swears her son hit puberty he has given more kisses to the floor of their entryway in the early hours of the morning than he has ever given to her cheeks. She bent over to pick up the blanket that her clumsy little tuna-fish dropped in his mad rush and moved to straighten up the bed clothes he inevitably leaves in disarray whenever he sleeps. As she tidied up the hastily discarded clothes, the tumbled stack of books, threw away the left over snack wrappers and packaging, her eyes swept across the small space he seemed to occupy more and more and a sliver of wistfulness pierced her heart. Here and there, she could see pieces left over from his toddler years—toys and picture books—tucked into a random nook or cranny…forgotten pieces and reminders of his more carefree days.

Those long-gone years when her little Tsu-kun smiled with the kind of unabashed joy that seemed to be as wide as the sky, filled with the kind of brilliance that could rival the brightness of the sun. Her sweet little tuna fish…if only he would smile that way again…be the way he was…be more like the young man his sweet self once promised to be…

_When did he lose his brilliance, my little tuna-fish…when did he stop weaving dreams that made him shine like the very sun?_

Something inside her son never seemed to click just quite right, like some misaligned set of gears that continues to run but never quite as smoothly or as fluidly as it ought or intended to be. She could attest to the sad fact that her darling Tsu-kun spent more time walking into walls and hitting the doorjambs than he does walking through them. And while she is well aware that her only son isn't going to win any price for athleticism, he was not born with such clumsy, dare she admit it, accident-prone nature. It was as if instead of growing more confident as he grew up and accustomed himself to his world and his being-he was permanently confined in that 24/7 awkward stage of not knowing. Like nothing quite worked as he hoped.

_Tsu-kun used to try despite his fear…he used to look at things and express hope that he would someday be able to…when did he start simply accepting—resigning himself…?_

Her son had always been a bit soft hearted and timid but lately she has begun to wonder if sometime between her beloved husband's last visit and her son's start in school something had occurred that changed her Tsu-kun from being a playful albeit shy child to one who seem to always be in constant war with his own body and his environment—a child far too frightened with everything and everyone in his world. A child at war with the very nature he was born with.

And with that thought she had to grimace. Nana is well aware that some fault lies with her. She knows that she never once corrected her son's erroneous ways of thinking. Never once had she told him that he could—should try harder and that she wanted more from him. Never once had she asked him to be more than what he was. Never once saying that he shouldn't have to acquiesce to defeat and failure so willingly, so easily.

She might've entertained these thoughts and more but she never said the words, not once, preferring in truth, to have him constantly next to her. She never gave voice to the recriminations that sometimes nag at her, reassuring herself that she was only doing what any good mother would do.

She doesn't want him to be out there in the wild, harsh world. Not outside where pain could reach him…not out there with people who could hurt or harm him…not out there where dangers lurked and where he would be beyond her care…her help.

_Selfish…she knows that she has been nothing but that…but she has never been before…not even with her husband and his time…not for anything but her son. But then again Tsu-kun was all she has...all that makes each day mean something for her._

And Tsu-kun's…well, there's always been something so reassuring about having Tsu-kun around…something that quieted her fears whenever he was close. There were many times in the past when Tsu-kun was all that kept her sane. Lonely times when she longed for the strength of her husband's arms and all that she had left to hold on was her little boy. Tsu-kun was always there for her, his eyes always pinned on her, following her with his gaze, making sure that she was okay…or that she was still there. Those eyes reassured her whenever she would look into those deep pools of russet…

_Her beloved little tuna-fish had such beautiful eyes, though he it has become more common for him to hide them beneath those spiky locks of his. A soothing quality to his soft, guileless gaze that made you want to just be near…near enough to touch and make sure he was there...that he was real. That somehow he wasn't a figment of dream that might fade when morning comes…_

And yet, she always found comfort in the fact that her Tsu-kun's eyes were always honest…always clear and always so tranquil. She would sometimes wonder where he got those eyes—deep, clear russet that darkened or lightened depending on the strength of his emotions…eyes blessed with such purity in spite of his age. Tsu-kun's eyes seemed ageless at times—like the eyes of someone not completely of this world. Like something that has seen far too much of the world and learned to care deeply and intently. Sometimes she would simply spend her evenings stealing glances at her oblivious boy and wonder what dwelled behind those impenetrable chocolate orbs and she finds even more reason to keep him close.

_His very nature's so warm…so open and welcoming…and at times, Tsu-kun can be such a comforting surprise in his sense of discretion. One need never lie with her little tuna-fish and one need never fear that he would reveal whatever secret he learns. _

And yet there would be times when she would be puzzled by the contradiction in Tsu-kun's actions, his manners. Though, to be honest, it doesn't happen often. Usually only when he succumbs to his feelings and experiences something that moves or angers him..._or when you cry_...a melancholic voice inside reminds her.

She has resigned herself to the fact that he was clumsy but sometimes, like those rare days when he would see her tears Tsu-kun would suddenly be able to glide silently to her side, offering a crumpled handkerchief or a hastily pulled tissue in his small pale hands. He would touch her jaw gently and look at her with those intense russet eyes and the sun would sometimes glint across their surface-turning them impossibly golden…like a gem set ablaze from within. And then he would tell her softly, tenderly, carefully that he was there…that he will never leave and that she would always have him. He would wipe away her tears, smiling determinedly in front her, never once noticing that his own eyes glimmered with tears that never seemed to fall.

And then the moment would pass and she would be left wondering how he got so close to her so fast without faltering when he would usually be unable to even cross from the threshold to the living room without bumping against three different things or tripping across his own feet. Or how his voice was suddenly filled with such depth, such gravitas that it makes her forget that she was being comforted by a child and that she was the actual adult in that equation. And then she would put the thought out of her mind and continue on living as happily as she could with her sometimes-mysterious little tuna fish.

* * *

**Title Translation: LE ACQUE PROFONDE = "DEEP WATERS"**


	5. Che l'uomo da Italia

That man from italy

Authors Note: Standard disclaimer applies. In no way, shape or form does KHR belong to me. Sole credit is rightfully owned by Amano Akira. Dialogues lifted from manga—augmented to some degree by yours truly—so if you have complaints—please don't. Italian scripts courtesy of Google Translate. Because as much as I would like to claim that I speak Italian, even I can't write that piece of fiction. Many, many thanks to those who read, reviewed, followed and added this humble work to their favorites.

**2013 Update: Tweaking. And I finally remembered something. The people conversing should be speaking in Italian. And since Google has so good-naturedly provided online translation I figured 'what the heck, let's try it'. I only beg forgiveness for those out there who actually speak this wonderful language to extend every ounce of understanding for this amateur's blatant misuse, abuse and just butchering of your mother tongue. I can only claim artistic and writing eccentricity as my defense. Have mercy.**

**_Italicized _= my and Google®s attempt at Italian**

**(…) = My original dialogue**

* * *

_**Chapter 5:**_

**CHE L'UOMO DA ITALIA**

_**The sea will ebb and flow, heaven show his face,**_

_**Young blood doth not obey an old decree:**_

_**We cannot cross the cause why we were born.**_

_- (Love's Labour's Lost, 4.3.203), Biron_

* * *

**48 hours ago**

**8:00 a.m. Saturday **

**AMALFI COAST**

The sight may as well have come from a postcard. It was a picturesque seaside tourist town at the end of the well-paved winding, twisting cobble stoned path. Near one of its many small hamlets that delighted tourist take furtive snapshots of, a small cafe was located, tucked nearly out of sight and far off the beaten tourist path. In one of its many outdoor tables a figure could be seen lounging lazily like a cat sunning itself in the sun. Cool, sharp eyes concealed beneath the thick fall of hair was kept at half-mast, occasionally glaring at the sun when the light becomes too intense, one hand tapping a staccato rhythm of impatience or ennui with long, surprisingly supple fingertips on the cool surface of a weathered wicker chair.

"_Occupato?"_ (busy?)

The voice that spoke out of nowhere was cool and surprisingly sweet-sounding. But that impression lasted but a few precious seconds. All that it took, in fact, for the lounging patron with a pair of impatient cold eyes to swivel past the throng of tourist straight into the unexpected figure standing where once there was no one.

_"T-tu—!" _(Y-you)

A raised finger and tightening of thin lips effectively stopped the flood of words that threatened to erupt from the clearly flustered café patron. Straightening, the patron revealed himself to bear the face and figure of a young male with eyes alert and cheeks now mottled with the flush of embarrassment for being caught unaware.

_"Regola numero 1, non rendono assunzioni inutili. Regola 0-non farmi domande stupide che mi fanno venire sprecare il mio tempo e io non ti ucciderà. Capito?"_

(Rule No. 1, don't make asinine assumptions. Rule 0—you don't ask me stupid questions that will make me waste my time and I don't waste you. Understood?)

A gulp and a short nod. All the response that was allowed in situations such as this. To do more would be more than foolhardy. But the new arrival didn't settle for nonverbal cues when he conducted his dealings. He wanted the words or he wouldn't ask for them.

"_Mi chiedo di se aveste compreso." (I asked if you understood)_

"_Comprendo_." (I understand)

"_Prendere accordi. Ho un assegnazione speciale per te." _

(Make arrangements. I have a special assignment for you.)

All trace of chagrin or nerves vanished immediately from the young man as if they were never there. This was familiar territory for him. The exchange is one that's known and well-practiced. A small pocketbook was brought out, flipped open to a blank page, pen poised at the ready.

_"Quando?"_ (When)

A pause. The first since the newer comer arrived. The young man didn't suspect anything from it. A contract was a delicate matter and he was prepared to wait until the contractor was certain. He knows well enough that he wouldn't have to wait long. Considerations, tactics and strategy flashed in the span a normal person blinks. Decisions made and a barrage of instructions flowed out.

"_Mi chiamo per te quando ho il necessità che. Termina qualsiasi contratto che avete in sospeso e non approvano tutti gli altri lavori per il momento. Preparare i documenti necessari per per un soggiorno prolungato." _

(I'd call for you when I have the need for it. Terminate any contract you have pending and don't contract any further jobs for the time being. Prepare the necessary papers for an extended stay)

_"Mascherare?" (Cover)_

_""Non c'è bisogno. Dove stai andando, nessuno avrebbe saputo o cura."_

(No need. Where you're going, no one would know or care)

_"Quanto?"_ (How much)

Another pause. This time there was a lethal edge to the suddenly charged silence. If he thought he had overstepped his bound and crossed into dangerous territory the young man didn't show any outward reaction. He firmly locked his gaze with the fearsome figure in front of him and waited.

_"Pensi che ti avrei barare?" (You think I'd stiff you)_

The question held the thinnest sliver of amusement in it. The young man weighed his options, whether to apologize or stick to his principles. In the end, he went with his gut instinct and the retort when it came, was pithy and to the point. There was a wealth of knowledge in the brief exchange.

"_Regola uno della sopravvivenza le strade-Guardare fuori per te e il tuo interesse prima di ogni altra cosa." _(Rule One of Surviving the streets-Look out for yourself and your interest before anything else)

A nod this time and the barest gleam of approval in those deep, dark fathomless eyes that the young man barely caught. A faint flush of rose washed over sculpted cheekbones and the contractor gave a brief chuckle.

"_Scaltro. Tu sei che almeno. Non ti preoccupare, ti verrà pagato ben oltre la normale quantità."_

(Shrewd. You have that at least. Don't worry, you will be paid well over the normal fees.)

A pause, the quick scrapings of the pen halted to a sudden stop. Eyes, sharp, clear and unamused stared back at fathomless black depths and scowled. The words that spilled out of his lips were succinct and sardonically empathetic.

_"Che merdoso un'assegnazione eh?"_ (That shitty an assignment, huh)

A smirk was all that was given, as if the question posed was primarily a means to tease. A rhetorical question that needs no further confirmation. The response was expected. No one paid more than the expected fees unless the contractor knows the assignment would be less than ideal. It was the unspoken specifications of their particular game.

_"Non fare lo stupido condiscendente. Considerate la tua audizione. Se si passa, non avrete mai spazio per motivo o rimpianto."_

(Don't be a condescending twit. Consider this your audition. If you pass, you'll never have cause or room for regret)

_"Chiarire che a me."_ (Clarify that for me)

"_Quando questa assegnazione è finita Omerta sarà l'unica cosa che potrebbe trattenere_."

(When this assignment is over Omerta will be the only thing that could hold you back)

A low whistle sliced through the tense air, expelled through pursed lips and now, a cocked brow rose questioningly.

_"Questo è un incentivo molto allettante che stai offrendo lì."_

(That's quite the tempting incentive you're offering there)

"_Lo pensavo anch'io."_ (I thought so too)

A sigh. Nimble fingers tapped the notebook absently against a raised knee, the pale, elegant digits seemed incongruous against the weathered jeans and cheap fabric. Wariness warred with cautious hope. Cynicism and skepticism battled with interest for dominance at the forefront of his mind.

"_Allora, che disperato Famiglia sta giocando Florence Nightingale con me?"_

(So which desperate famiglia is playing Florence Nightingale with me?)

A snort of condescension, and pursed lips greeted the young man's words, the question itself was clearly viewed as a minor affront, but the answer came anyway.

_"C'è solo un che rappresento."_ (There's only one I represent)

_"Quale famiglia alleate?"_ (Which allied family?)

The sudden silence that descended between the two was telling and thick with unspoken tension. The hawk-like gaze that until that moment only showed faint sardonic amusement sharpened until the darkness of its usual hue held was a preternatural gleam. The lethal edge only hinted at mere moments ago is now fully unsheathed.

_"Io non credo che tu mi abbia sentito."_ (I don't think you heard me)

_"Merde."_

_"Aspetta il mio evocare. Quando chiamo per te, non voglio avere a che fare più di una volta."_

(Wait for my summon. When I call for you, I don't want to have to do it more than once)

The young man didn't actually see his contractor walk away. Frankly he didn't even see the man move away from where he perched the minute he appeared. He had only glanced away for a second as a group of passing tourist blocked the sun's rays and when he looked back he was alone. The broker was gone and all that was left when the next group of tourist passed once more was the figure of a young slouched like a contemplative cat sunning itself across a weathered wicker chair, an idle hand tapping a thoughtful staccato rhythm against an empty china cup.

* * *

**31 hours ago, Dusk**

**Sunday**

**SICILY**

The dockside bar was like any other found in any port city in the world. The landscape consisted of the usual sights and serenaded by the predictable cacophony of sounds—ships, surfs and seagulls. The buildings small and low, none of them new or in any way ostentatious, weathered brass signs and soft lighting their only distinguishing marks.

True, here and there, dotted like so much shrub, are scruffy looking men hanging out of the bars, bikes and trucks between them. In a far corner, a pair of lovers whispered and flirted with abandon. A street over, a mother and son clearly chatted about their dinner plans as they lugged home a laden paper sack of groceries. And yet there was a discordant air to what should've been a banal scene, like a staged scene that any minute now would be disrupted and stripped away.

For while there are scruffy looking men in biker gear and truck-stop couture, there were also quiet men that moved with stealthy grace as they smoked and leaned against a shadowed corner. The flirtatious couple walked hand in hand and yet for all their gaiety never seemed to glance any further than where their own shadows were cast, their eyes pinned on each other—seemingly blind to everyone and everything else around them, reacting not at all to the oddly parked black limousine that sat incongruously at the curb. The mother and son curiously avoided the wide open paved streets and continued to traverse the long-winded more troublesome cobblestoned paths of the winding nearby alleyways.

Amidst this on-going tableau of contradictions a cloud passed over the full moon and obscured the faint light and when it emerged once more a shadow stood silhouetted against the cold pebbled streets as if born from that brief flicker of darkness. The shadow moved resolutely towards one of the quieter box structures and pushed the heavy doors open.

A smoky haze filled the room, redolent of expensive cigar and subtle masculine scents. Heavy wooden tables gleamed under the soft light of recessed lamps and wall scones. Cut crystal glass filled with expensive spirits held in a nimble fingered grasp, thin lips stretched into smirks and grimaces. Bodies—wiry, gangly, and rotund—clad in everything from expensive handmade suits to designer couture, arrayed around here and there, each seemingly relaxed, yet each making sure that they had a clear sight of the available exits.

The sound of the heavy oak doors swinging open brought heads swiveling towards the figure that stood out amidst the fading sun's light. A ripple of awareness swept across the patrons sitting and a new tension gripped them. A few brave ones offered a silent toast to salute the newcomer as two of the older, more relaxed patron dared to venture initiating a conversation.

_"Buona sera, straniero." _(Good evening Stranger)

_"Che non abbiamo visto ti per lungo tempo." (_We haven't seen you for quite some time)

_"Si troppe cose da fare." _(Too much to do)

_"Chiamato dallo vecchio uomo nuovamente ? " _(Called out by the old man again?)

_"Quelle popolare l'hanno duro." _ (The popular ones have it tough.)

_"Allora, dove ti sono spenti a questo tempo? Venezia? Roma? "_

(So where are you off to this time? Venice? Rome?)

_"Giappone."_ (Japan)

_"Cosa? Ma questo significa che ..."_ (What? But that means…)

_"Il vecchio si deve aver finalmente preso la sua decisione?"_

(The old man must have finally made up his mind?)

_"Sembra che sta andando essere un viaggio lungo."_ (It looks like it is going to be a long journey)

There was no need for the figure to say anything further. His mind, after all, was already cataloging and planning all the things he needed to accomplish a thousand miles away.

* * *

**Title Translation: ****CHE L'UOMO DA ITALIA** = "THAT MAN FROM ITALY


	6. A Prima Vista

Authors Note: We know the drill. KHR isn't mine so don't remind me anymore okay. Again as I've said in the previous chapters I am tweaking the tale a bit so this chapter's not exactly new. The one that follows, however, most certainly is.

**_Chapter 6:_**

**A PRIMA VISTA**

_**Of all our infirmities, the most savage is to despise our being. **_

_~Michel de Montaigne_

* * *

**6:00 a.m.**

**Monday**

**Namimori, Japan**

_**The house was nondescript**_. It was a simple house in a simple, cloyingly idyllic suburb, in the middle of an even smaller town. It was a town far from the hustle, bustle and sophistication of his familiar world. There was nothing special about the house, nothing especially noteworthy save for its neatness and that feeling of welcome that it seemed to exude in some intangible way. The house seemed like a woman in slumber, poised and expectant, waiting at the threshold of awakening.

Surely there was nothing in the house—outside or inside it to indicate to the rest of the world that the house belongs to one of the most influential and powerful mover and shaker in the underworld. A humdrum picture of mediocrity seemed bred to the house's very bones. The cream-colored walls and red tiled roof were in excellent condition. The door and windows was seemingly secure though the low wall and equally flimsy gate wouldn't do anything against a determined intruder and certainly wouldn't amount to much more than an annoying delay for a skilled assassin. The fact that there was a balcony that led directly to what he could surmise as a bedroom didn't improve the pathetic excuse for security the house provided. He made a mental note to remedy the problem as soon as he gains entry into the household.

Mental note taken, his eyes assessed the house once more. It was as unassuming as an abode as any. Surely there ought to be something more. _Something there._ Something to indicate that this simply constructed box held within its insubstantial walls and flimsy beams the soul that would one day become the leader of one of the oldest and certainly the most powerful Mafia famiglia in the world. Surely even fate wouldn't play such a prank on him.

With an irritated sigh, he glanced at the thin sheet of parchment he held in his hand. The flimsy parchment contained the advert he penned on the plane en route. He wonders now if the wording he chose was perhaps too vague for the absent looking woman he spied moving in frenetic energy inside the house. He wonders too if it would be simply too complicated for her to figure out. Any woman who could live in blissful ignorance of her mate's particular choice of occupation could either be absolutely astute or regrettably ditzy.

He stole another glance at the figure that tottered busily inside and slid the note inside the mail box. Something—some instinct—told him that he would find out exactly what kind of woman could hold the reins to the heart of the fierce Lion of the Vongola. Anyone who could tame such a wild spirit and hold him in thrall would be a formidable spirit indeed, especially if she was so willing to exile herself halfway around the world for his sake.

In the meantime, he would be patient. He timed his arrival perfectly. With any luck, he would have enough time to do a quick surveillance of his new surroundings, breach the threshold by the time dinner is to be served and have his first meeting with his 'fortunate' student after his day from school. It would give him plenty of time to prepare the boy for what's in store for him in the coming days ahead. It would also give him plenty of time to put some of his not-so immediate plans into action. No sense in wasting half the day when there's a lot of things that must be attended to. A good tutor can never have too much preparation.

* * *

**10:00 a.m.**

**Monday**

**Namimori Middle School**

There was something really odd happening to him. All day he felt like he was waiting for something. It was an irrational feeling since he knows damn well he wasn't expecting any one at all. Though he lived with only one parent—the other being an absentee figure that he never wasted time waiting for—hardly anyone ever came to visit them. Certainly there had never been any instance when the visitor came specifically for him. Sales people came to the house some of the time, statistician, and once, a scruffy looking man looking for his father and left immediately after seeing his face.

No, there was no logical reason for him to feel this urgency and unease. But somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that something is about to change. Just what it was…he couldn't tell. Vexed, he wished the annoying voice inside of him would give its usual clarion call of warning but for once the voice he had been living with since he was very little was oddly silent. A few days ago, for the first time the voice inside his head spoke so strongly and now, oddly, it was silent. As if it had nothing more to say. He dismissed the thought immediately, knowing full well that ever since he can remember that voice had always been there. **Always.**

_Was he in any danger? Was that it?_

No…it couldn't be danger. The voice that spoke to him in his dreams always warned him when danger comes. He has learned to listen to it after the last time he ignored the warning he ended with a fractured wrist and bruises he could no longer find excuses for courtesy of his school's resident bullies. _So, no…he wasn't in some danger_. But there was certainly something there…something warning him…All that he could tell for sure was somehow the voice inside of him was humming with excitement and anticipation. _But that was absurd!_ He told himself over and over again to ignore the feelings and the voice inside his head. It was wrong. _What did he have to be excited over? _But for the life of him he couldn't figure it out. He had to figure it out…he had to-!

"Tsuna pass!"

**THWACK!**

"Oof!"

The impact of the ball slamming into him felt like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. It smacked him straight into the smooth cold wooden gym floor with unforgiving thoroughness and force. Apparently he was so distracted with his internal musings that he forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. The pain reminded him quite literally to keep his introspection during the few times and places he couldn't get hurt. The gym where he was, clearly wasn't one of those places. Chagrined, he tried to get to his feet with as much dignity as he could spare but by then, it was much too late.

"Ahh! Not again!"

"Come on Dame Tsuna!"

The admonishments and cries of disappointment were nothing new. He had certainly heard worse things, and would probably continue to do so until he graduated. Though the pain of the ball's impact has been dulled to a throbbing heat, he wasn't in such a hurry to get back on his feet. The cold floor eased some of the pain, and he could delay having to be confronted by those eyes again.

_Belittling eyes. Condescending eyes. Disappointed eyes._

He can't recall the last time he was spared by those unforgiving eyes. Certainly, he had learned to cope. He had to. He has enough strikes against him—he had no leeway for being emotional or demanding. But somehow, despite all of his pep talks, the sting lingers and continued to linger long after the ones that cast them on him had left. It echoed inside his head…the unceasing cacophony of jeers and taunts and derisive jokes all at his expense.

"Ah! You're the reason why we lost you know!"

_Yes, he knows. Oh, how well he knows that fact._ Every team he has ever joined, in every event, in all his grade level, for any and all reasons, lost when he was with them. It was no wonder he always get picked last. He honestly couldn't blame them. He would've denied them the pleasure of taking a pity on him if only the teacher hadn't insisted on everyone participating. Sometimes he wonders who was crueler—his classmates for their prejudice and derision or the teachers for their obliviousness.

The sound of retreating footsteps signaled a release of sorts. He gingerly raised himself off the floor, absentmindedly dusted his P.E. uniform and tried to figure out how best to leave as unobtrusively as possible. It wasn't that hard and he had grown adept at melting into the woodwork. Barely, if anyone at all, acknowledge his presence on a daily basis. He could only hope that this time he would be lucky enough to be slide past all of his classmates. He looked up and felt his heart sink. They didn't leave after all. They actually came closer to where he was standing, glaringly alone and with nowhere to hide to confront him directly. The words tumbled past his lips without a moment's thought.

"I'm sorry!"

Eyes cast down; head bowed diffidently, the words of apology poured out of him automatically now. He practically apologizes for anything and everything if it would save him a few precious minutes of respite before the hail of fists and recriminations start flying. A broom was suddenly thrust in front of him and he winced before he reached out and took it in his hands reflexively.

"We want to play during our precious after school time."

"So, you can do the cleaning."

There was no doubt that their statements were anything but an order. The broom held closely against his chest felt cold and heavy and he tried to speak—to ask—to say anything but the others had already turned away. He bit his lip to stem the flow of words that wanted to escape knowing full well it wouldn't make one iota of difference since there would be no other there other than himself who would hear them anyway.

"Were counting on you!"

**No…you're not…**

"You can do it, Dame-Tsuna!"

_That nickname again…I've lived up to my nickname again, huh…_

He clutched the broom closer to his chest bowed head. His fingers ached as he gripped the broom's handle in his fist, his closed lids already trembling and burning as he tried desperately to stem the flow of frustrated tears already welling in them as taunts and recriminations echoed all around him in unceasing wave of words and voices.

_"…Tests?"_

_"Flunked them all since he enrolled!"_

_"…Sports?"_

_"The team that Dame-Tsuna is on always loses!"_

Their derisive laugh grated in his ears and the pain that he felt when the ball slammed into his face now felt trivial to the ache of shame washing over him. They didn't even bother to conceal the fact that they were talking about him as they strode out of the gym, their words reverberating mercilessly in the sudden stillness and silence of the huge room drowning out the soft, hesitant words that managed to slip past thin, trembling lips.

"W-wait…."

**Title Translation: A PRIMA VISTA = "AT FIRST GLANCE"**


	7. Nei Tuoi Occhi

**Authors Note**: Hey! I finally made a new one! KHR is still not mine, yaddah…doodah…hope you're still reading out there.

* * *

**Chapter 7:**

_**NEI TUOI OCCHI**_

_**What lies behind us and what lies before us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us. **_

_~Henry Stanley Haskins, Meditations in Wall Street, 1940_

* * *

As far as first impressions go, the candidate Timoteo has chosen leaves much to be desired. If he was more inclined to be blunt, he would say that his old friend must've lost a bet when he made his decision. If he was being absolutely tactless, he would say to anyone who asked that the candidate was the kind he would use for target practice because he could find them anywhere, any time of the day. A dime-a-dozen Joe. A mediocre, run-of-the mill nobody he wouldn't even hire for the lowliest position as garden lackey in any of the mansions of the famiglia.

Worse, the candidate's uncoordinated, unmotivated, and unattractive (_okay that one might not mean much to others but no effective leader, anywhere in the world, at any time, in any era is ever truly butt ugly for a reason. You think Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great were conquerors just because they took over some land with their wits?_). The boy is below average in nearly everything that would make him even worth any notice—intelligence, status, athleticism, appeal—there was simply nothing to work with. His old friend and current employer has given him a challenge worthy of the ages—he gave him a raw hide still attached to the sow apparently—and demanded that he turn it into gold. Not just base metal into gold, no, not even straw into gold—no, his friend and employer gave him something apparently no one wanted and expected him to turn it into the pearl of prize worthy of being hailed more precious than all the crown jewels in the known world.

_**Honestly, why couldn't the man just ask him to shoot himself in the head and get it over with?**_

Though to be brutally fair, Nono knows well enough that he liked challenges. The more improbable, the more impossible, the better. He liked challenging himself, his skills, his talent and resources, pitting them against the most unfavorable of odds and then coming out the winner. He liked annihilating obstacles to worthy causes and Nono knows this. Worse of all, Nono knows he couldn't resist a challenge that puts into question his sterling reputation. And though all the intelligence report supplied by his varied sources tell him that the candidate was less than ideal, there was one thing that held sway over his decision. One reason he knows trumped all the written words he had spent the past week reviewing. One reason that is contingent upon all others.

* * *

_**Flashback**_

_Vongola Mansion_

_Italy_

The valley was bathed in gold…the sun's setting rays gilding everything it touched, setting the wide open skies ablaze with the kind of light and color unrivaled by even the cleverest of man's attempt at art. Resting at the heart of this verdant valley, secluded behind thick growth of trees and voluminous rows of grapes and olive groves, a mansion lies hidden from prying eyes and a muted conversation takes in one of its many rooms, in a balcony that offered the only sliver of sea visible for miles all around.

Two figures, both male sat facing each other from across a small wrought iron patio table. Identically clad in black, identical cups of coffee staring idly by as mute witnesses as their eyes looked out into the majestic vista displayed in front of them, a voiceless tapestry on which their silent exchange takes precedence. A moment pass, or maybe two and one of the black suited men finally broke their fragile tête-à-tête.

His voice was hushed, gravely with the years and endowed with the kind of quality found only in those blessed with undeniable wisdom and charisma.

"You are leaving today?"

The hesitation in his tone was not concealed or buried beneath false courtesy. There was earnestness in his tone that reveals his disquiet. The response, when it came, came with a voice soft and eerily sweet.

"As soon as they're done fueling the plane. Then I will let them take me as far as the closest airport. I will make my own way towards Japan and Namimori afterwards. It will not do to alert others to my presence just yet."

The older of the two simply nodded but his eyes, like his voice when he spoke again, was laced with undeniable sadness.

"My friend—take care of him, please. I know that you don't have much faith in my judgment left after that regrettable incident eight years ago—"

His words were cut off by the wave of another's hand. The voice, still sweet, was firm.

"I told you to be careful with your ward. I didn't say enough though and that is my fault."

"I know. If it could've been avoided, you know I would've done anything. But I still believe that…it doesn't matter now. What matters is that you go to him as soon as you can."

Silence once more reigned. This time it was the sweet-voiced one that broke their impasse.

"Have you truly made up your mind about this Timoteo?"

Like the words that broke the silence before, they were softly spoken. The weight of the words was clearly felt and the older companion took a deep breath before speaking. His eyes, lambent and gentle shone with determination and melancholy. His words, when they came, were husky with emotion, filled longing and hope.

"This family—my family—is all that I have ever loved…from the very cradle I was told I will one day be in charge of it and I grew up knowing that it was my duty, my God-given birthright. I know of no other life and I wish for no other. But this family—my family is dying, my friend. It is being torn apart from within and there's precious little I could do to prevent it. Our world is unraveling…it is being assaulted from all sides…weakening each and every one of us. The decline has been going on for years and years and years, aided by centuries of war and bloodshed and betrayals. I need to put a stop to it, old friend. I must."

"You are pinning so much of your hopes, your wishes and prayers on the whims of fate, Timoteo. Why are you hinging everything on this child, hoping that he could accomplish what nine generations of men couldn't?"

"This child is very special, Reborn…very special."he whispered.

"No child is that special Nono…you are not some naïve, gullible fool to be taken by such flights of fancy."

"No, I'm not chasing after my own version of fool's gold, old friend. But this child is special in ways I can't even tell you. He is special, Reborn. He is—I've seen it in him. Inside him—there within lies a spirit so vast it could encompass the world. A spirit so pure—so true—it may finally wash away our-!"

"You blind fool. Are you setting yourself up to fail? Is this a means to capitulate for you?"

"No…no, not at all." He reached out and for the first time grasped the hand of his companion in his. He looked deep into fathomless eyes and tried with all his might to communicate his conviction. "You must understand Reborn, this is the child that would change our world. When I met him-!"

"You met him as a child" Reborn retorted cuttingly. He stared at his old friend and tried his damnedest to make him see logic. "A child uncorrupted by the world, untainted by pain, unaware of how dark and dangerous and unforgiving people can be. You are pinning your very soul on a child that has never known hunger or fear, or deprivation or pain. A child who has never been beaten down by those around him, by life and by the choices he has made. You are praying for a child to save and cleanse the sins accumulated by four hundred years of bloodshed and betrayal?"he asked bluntly.

Reborn was prepared for Timoteo to explain his thoughts; he steeled himself against the man's evocative and persuasive words. He was prepared for a torrent of arguments but what he got was a single quietly spoken word.

"Yes."

He closed his eyes. In denial or defeat, he couldn't say. He knows now that nothing he could say would hold sway against his old friend's determination.

"You are a fool Timoteo. A sentimental fool."

"You can refuse, you know that. You appeared when I summoned you. Your debt has been repaid."

"Only I can say when my debts have been paid. No one—not even you—can tell me when my debts have been dispensed with. This, whatever this is that you have made—this is a risky gamble."

"I know. But with the stakes are this high, there's no other way but to brave all the odds and win it." Timoteo finally gave a genuine smile, "Why else did you think I chose you?"

* * *

**Flash forward**

_Sawada Residence_

_Namimori, Japan _

Reborn cast another assessing look at the house and its occupant. He spent a few seconds staring at the young candidates mother and wondered was there was anything of his sire within him or was he completely his mother's child and if so, what part of him did Timoteo really want.

"I know why you choose me Nono…I only hope this boy knows just what he's about to get himself into."

* * *

**Title Translation: NEI TUOI OCCHI = "IN YOUR EYES"**


	8. Disegno Della Linea

**Authors Note:** Yes, I know. KHR still belongs to the one and only Akira Amano-Sensei. I'm nothing but a lowly thief purloining snippets of his creations for my own benefit. Now that my self-esteem has been ravaged and reduced to ashes time to continue. I know that my story is progressing at a ridiculously slow pace but I want to make sure I know where I want to put my Tsuna. I'm no good with fight scenes. I wouldn't even know how to begin. The manga version of Tsuna is a bit more childish than the anime and I want a nice balance that would make sense why he drew so many people to him—what made such a boy into such a powerful charismatic Boss. I wanted his humanity and the humanity of those around him—and that—isn't easy to find or write about. But I will try my best.

I know only how to create introspective looking mindset so please bear with me. I want to get to know the motivations behind each of them. And how KHR might have developed if it was a more introspective tale.

* * *

_**Chapter 8:**_

**DISEGNO DELLA LINEA**

_**He who fights with monsters might take care lest he thereby become a monster. **_

_**And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.**_

_Friedrich Nietzsche, Beyond Good and Evil, Aphorism 146_

* * *

His hands were trembling...

_But when were they ever really steady anyway? When was the last time they did anything of worth save shake and tremble and fumble and drop things they failed to hold on to? From early on, nothing his hands grasped ever stayed within it. Nothing. His hands had always been useless—extraneous appendages he just happened to be born with, capable of little else but wiping away tears as they trailed along his mother's pale cheeks, capable of nothing else but clutching at his blankets to yank them over his head when nightmares haunt him, capable of little else except flailing about as he fell time and time again to the unforgiving ground as kids stronger and more cunning than he forced him to stay there._

His hands, like his school sobriquet, was much the same.

**NO GOOD**

His body was protesting...

_And why wouldn't it? His knees were knocking and his arms feel like they're about to fall off from fatigue and exhaustion as unused muscles burned from the act of cleaning up the entire gym all by himself, of putting away the equipment his class used just hours before. His body only wanted to dump him on the floor and recover. Worse, he knows that his own body wants to leave him in a heap and divorce him if it could._

_But then when did his body ever listen to him anyways? It did what it wanted, whenever it wanted, in whatever fashion it decided. What did it matter that his mind screamed instructions loud enough to deafen any other person? What did it matter that he battled his own body for control each and every day and still he couldn't figure out why nothing he ever did ended up the way he intended? What did it matter that every night he would pray desperately that he would wake up with a body that doesn't sabotage its owner every step of the way?_

His body, his entire being, like that hateful nickname he couldn't live down, couldn't deny, and couldn't erase from everyone's mind, was firmly and undeniably stuck with the same fate as the rest of him.

**NO GOOD.**

His heart was aching…

_And why wouldn't it? Why wouldn't his heart protest his silence when he knows some part of him wished he had called out and stopped his classmate from leaving him all alone? But what good would that do? It's not like he could actually make himself say the words anyway. The guilt gnawing at him wouldn't allow him to abandon what he rightfully believed to be his just punishment any more than he could say the words already causing blood to pool inside his mouth from his bitten lip. He has already forgotten when he fell into the habit of biting back words so that he wouldn't utter the things that sometimes pop unheedingly into his head. He has forgotten how often he had to go around with the taste of blood in his mouth—from the number of times he bit his lip to stop himself from crying out—in fear, in sadness, in pain._

Slowly he started putting away the mop he just finished using, leaning it—wet tendrils wrung out—up against one wall, bucket next to it before closing the storage closet's door as carefully as possible. He refused to look at the dark space any longer than he had to—remembering all too well the number of times he ended up inside one, crammed in like something one dismissed and discarded.

With a shake of his head at the dark image, he turned away and walked towards the gym's door, absent-mindedly picking up his bag when his knees finally gave out and buckled beneath him. Staggering, he barely found enough strength to slide pathetically down one wall and land on his much abused bottom. It didn't matter that the gym floors have grown ice cold after he mopped it clean nor did it matter to him that he wasn't really sure he has anything left for the inevitable push he would need later to stand up. For now at least there was no one to see him collapse in such ignominious heap. The idea make him chuckle bitterly.

_What did that one thing matter anyway?_

The entire school already had an arsenal of cringe-inducing, blackmail-worthy material on him. He would be lucky to graduate without an entire section of the yearbook not dedicated to his utter failure and hopelessness. On the other hand, he might just have the unfortunate luck of being left out of the yearbook if someone forgets about him. Either way, he doubts if his high school experience would ever amount to anything that wouldn't embarrass him or haunt him for the rest of his life.

He didn't know how long he sat there; it could've been a few minutes to an hour. The length of time was immaterial. Time can be funny that way for him. The times he's been happy has been few and far between and always seemed to pass all too quickly. But the for some reason his misery lasts almost twice as long, to the point that he could recall each excruciating minute he had to live through, each one extending until each second felt like a minute, each minute felt an hour, each hour took on the nightmarish quality of an eternity.

With a sad shake of his head, he tried to clear his mind and his heart of the bitterness that could've easily tainted him from within. How he knows, he never questions, only that he knew he couldn't allow himself to wallow in resentment. He is not saint—he gets mad, frustrated, even embittered. But he is thankful enough to know that no matter, he has never allowed anger or bitterness to dwell inside him for very long. It wasn't in his nature and he doubts he has the kind of will to nurture hatred or bitterness or rage for very long.

He knew, even as a child, that there's a level of hatred you can only keep for so long before it takes up permanent residence inside of you. His heart's already filled to capacity with his father's absence, his mother's sadness and his own inadequacy. He really doesn't think he could afford anymore hate inside of him and still be able to smile when his mother looks at him. He seriously doubts he could look right at her if he has allowed himself to give in to his anger.

Leaning back, he had an excellent view of the world outside the gym's enveloping quiet. He decided to give in to one of his less than stellar habits—talking to himself—as he took his fill of the school grounds, afforded a view he normally had enough chance or time to enjoy.

"So I'm no good with subjects. No good with athletics either…and anyone with half a brain cell should know there's a reason I go to school…"

He heard himself chuckle self-consciously and found amusement from the fact that he could feel so self-conscious even in the privacy of an echoing, empty school gymnasium. Sighing, he tried to get to his feet and found that the trembling in his knees had finally died down. Gingerly, he took a couple of steps and found that the brief interval had gone a long way to steadying him on his feet. He was about to scoop up his bag when he heard voices outside.

Turning, he peered outside the gym's windows and his eyes widened in surprise and cheer. There, walking outside were two girls and one of them was his reason for braving ridicule and failure on a daily basis. And that reason happens to be the one girl he's pretty darn certain will never be within his realm of possibility.

Sasagawa Kyoko. Namimori Middle School's current idol. Honey brown locks and bright golden brown eyes that drew the attention of nearly everyone and an innocent smile that could and did render most boys in school tongue-tied and dithering. _Or maybe that was just him?_ Reminding himself that eavesdroppers never heard anything good, least of all, about themselves, he nevertheless moved closer to the window to try and catch snatches of the light-hearted conversation that passed between Sasagawa Kyoko and her bestfriend Hana. He watched as a faint blush splash across the pale flawless cheeks of the pretty girl when Hana-san mentioned an upper classman. And as if fate itself summoned the man, not a minute passed and he came waltzing by and struck up an conversation with the school's idol.

He tried to stem the sour aftertaste of disappointment coating his stomach and turned away. His motivation clearly was engaged in a situation he had no chance of remedying. It wasn't like he had a chance any way and with Mochida-senpai in the picture; his odds just dwindled from the realm of the improbable to the insulting certainly of never.

He might as well head on home. _It's not like anyone would look for him._ And as pathetic as that might sound—even in the privacy of his mind—he knows that his entire class has conveniently forgotten all about him and his teachers would only remember because he would be a notation in their notebook and a convenient admonition to use for others on what to not become.

* * *

Sawada Nana was about to step into her kitchen to check on available ingredients and the content of her fridge for the evening's meal when her ears picked up the sound of the doorbell being rung. For a split second her hands clenched nervously and her heart stumbled in its beat—fear, primitive and irrational—stabbed her psyche and she wondered her son was alright. Shaking free of her fanciful and foolish thoughts, she walked towards the front door and with a smile fixed firmly on her lips, she opened the door and gave out a sweet thrill of welcome.

"Hai, konnichiwa."

"_Ciaossu. Sono venuto per tuo figlio, Sawada Nana."_

"W-hat did you say?"

"I've come for your son, Sawada Nana. I'm here for Sawada Tsunayoshi, future heir and tenth successor to the Vongola Famiglia."

* * *

**Title Translation: DISEGNO DELLA LINEA = "DRAWING THE LINE"**


	9. Un Tacito Accordo

**Author's Note**: I suppose I must endure saying this again and again while I write for this fandom. KHR isn't mine and at the rate of my writing skills, nothing like it ever will.

Story Note: I always wondered if Nana hadn't entertained just the slightest fear or trepidation regarding the upheavals in her son's life. I seriously doubt that she also remained clueless all those years regarding the nature of her husband's true occupation. This is my take on how a mother who has long feared changes would react if some unspoken change came to throw everything in her world—and her son's—topsy-turvy.

* * *

_**Chapter Nine**_

**UN TACITO ACCORDO**

_**"No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. **_

_**Destiny is made known silently."**_

_Agnes DeMille_

* * *

Nana blinked. There was a loud buzzing in her ear and for a moment or two she wondered if she really should've taken that vitamin pill she ignored that morning because she was certain something must be wrong with her. She took a deep breath and tried to settle the butterflies of unease that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her stomach. She must be hearing things. There's no way this child could've said the things he did. Why, for the briefest moment she was certain the little darling was speaking in a foreign language quite fluidly. How silly of her!

Rallying her thoughts and gathering her composure to her, she tried to pass off the odd episode to hunger pangs or exhaustion and smiled brilliantly at her wayward guest. She was determined to get control of the situation or else she might seriously consider therapy.

"I'm sorry sweetie, I think I might have misheard you. Can you say that again please? And where is your mommy punkin?"

She looked at the small figure that stood so still in front of her and she found herself wishing he would fidget, squirm or even shift his stance. She wished for his eyes to fill with wariness or even tears because she was prepared for those things—she knows how to deal with those things. She isn't so sure if she is capable of dealing with a child with eyes that seemed older, wiser and darker than even hers. She wished for a sweet voice to tell her something simple and inconsequential like selling cookies or looking for a lost pet. She wanted to hear a sweet, childish voice to speak to her about childish concerns desperately.

The figure in front her didn't oblige her though. He didn't fidget, squirm or shifted on his tiny,leather-clad feet. He remained absolutely still, his body controlled like a beautifully maintained and streamlined machine. His eyes didn't fill with anything but sharp perceptiveness. His voice went he condescended to speak once more was soft, sweet and absolutely chilling in their solemnity.

"I am not a figment of your imagination Sawada Nana. I am not a little lost baby. And you didn't mishear anything. I am here for Decimo. I am here for your son."

With those words Nana abandoned her naïve wish to make this unusual guest out to be a simple child. She rounded on him like a lioness who finally realized that this small intruder was something that poses a threat to her and hers. For the first time probably in her life, Nana found a vein of fierceness erupt inside her and it was all she could do not to snarl her words out to the impassive figure still standing so remotely in front of her.

"What did you just say?"

"Must I constantly repeat myself?"

This time she gave in to the impulse and finally growled. She really didn't care anymore that she was being rude. She wanted to bodily haul the little man-child by the lapels of his little suit.

"You bloody will repeat yourself until you tell me something that make sense."

Nana waited for him to speak. Waited for him to tell her that she misunderstood. Waited for him to tell her that she was wrong.

"Perhaps this discussion would progress much better inside. I don't want to say anything further out here where anyone passing by could overhear every little thing."

Nana was appalled by her words and her antagonistic attitude but she refused to back down. With a grudging nod, she opened the door a bit more and waited for her unusual caller to precede her into the house. They settled in the kitchen, partially because it was closest and because in times of distress or unrest, Nana found the kitchen to be her one sanctuary, a safe, warm space that never failed to remind her of home and hearth. And right now, she needed the reminder like never before.

This little man-child was threatening something precious to her and she wasn't about to give him any quarter. This little man-child who is still looking at her with those deep, dark, impassive eyes, assessing her, pigeon-holing her through some kind of mental catalogue of his.

A decidedly awkward pause settled between them but luckily manners reared its head and gave her something to do.

"I—would y-you like something to drink?"

"Espresso, if you would be so kind."

Nana gave a short nod and busied her hands working. Reaching up, she located the coffee maker her husband would sometimes use when he was home. Placing it safely on the counter, she turned and walked straight into the depths of her pantry to look for the bag of beans he insisted were the best and she would still keep in stock simply because she never knew when he'll need them. Holding the small canister in her arms, she tried to compose herself in the privacy of the small room. Drawing deep breaths, she tried to quell the icy snake of tension threatening to incapacitate her.

_I won't think about it yet. No…I must've made a mistake. I must have. I would apologize, I know I will. Yes, I made a mistake and making a good cup would go a long way towards my apology later on. Yes…_

Walking back into her kitchen, her self-possession firmly in place, she found that she could move quite normally when she didn't actively think of why there was a stranger in her kitchen. She carefully measured the beans into the machine and poured the requisite amount of water to make at least a few good cups. Plugging the machine, she turned towards the fridge and withdrew the cake she had make the night before when sleep had, for some reason, eluded her. The memory brought a reluctant smile to her tense lips.

_I guess I should be thankful my sudden insomnia served some good. I have something to pair with the coffee._

She tried not to think too much about the coincidence that it was a Tiramisu that she made, of all things, a desert she normally only made when her husband was home—a desert that for some reason, her son also quite adored despite the intense coffee flavoring in it.

For a few minutes, lost in the minute things that accompanied the simple act of serving a guest, she forgot the reason for the tension that gripped her just minutes before. Her nerves settled a bit and she found herself behaving almost normally. When the machine pinged to announce that the coffee was done, it was a simple matter to drew a cup and saucer from the cupboards overhead, pour the aromatic brew, place it and the small dish already containing the slice of cake and a small fork on a tray and bring everything to the table.

Placing the small cup in front of her silent guest, she waved a hand towards the cake slice and invited him to partake of the simple repast. He gave her a small nod of thanks and took a cautious sip of the brew. She caught the brief flash of surprise and pleasure in his eyes before he put the cup down and stared at her in silence once more. She stood next to her guest and tried to muster her courage but when she spoke, her nerves betrayed her anxiety.

"Please…tell me…I—I don't really think I understand what you—"

"I apologize for surprising you. I was told to come here and I assumed that you had been informed of the nature of my business with your son. I was send here for the one they call Tsunayoshi. I am to be his tutor."

Relief made her knees buckle and found herself sinking into one of the kitchen chairs gratefully. Her hands visibly shook and relieved tears gathered in her eyes. Wiping at them surreptitiously with an unsteady hand, she gave out a soft chuckle and smiled at her guest for the first time since she answered the door. Reprieve made her giddy and words gushed out of her lips in a torrent.

_**"Tutor**_? Oh...gods and here I was-! I am so sorry for what I said before! Goodness, I thought you said, forgive me ! Truly! You see, for a minute there I thought you said something else entirely—something about my son being heir to something—and I know that's just absurd-!"

The flood of words however dried up quickly when her guest gave a sharp shake of his head. The ice in her stomach that almost thawed was back with a fury she could no longer hope to extinguish. Dread made her normally cheerful voice tremble as she forced numbed lips to move and form words once more.

"W-what?"

"You didn't mishear me. I did say I am here for the future heir of the Vongola Famiglia. I am here to be the tutor to the future Vongola Decimo."

"W-what—did you-?"

"I am here for to take charge of the training of the Vongola heir. I was told that your husband-!"

"_**NO!"**_ She jumped to her feet so suddenly that her chair fell back in a loud violent crash behind her. "NO!NO!" she continued shrieking, her voice rising with every repetition of the word. Her eyes had grown wild and fierce and haunted. The little man-child simply continued to sip his coffee quietly and looked at her in silence, waiting…simply waiting for her outburst to die down and when it did, Nana found herself on her knees, hands clenched around her middle as tears poured out from wide, terrified eyes.

"You can't…he promised me that he will keep our son safe. He promised me that he will never be involved in all that—he promised me! He gave me his word that this will never come to pass!"

"He said that you would understand. That only you could."

"Understand what?" she blazed. "Understand that he's breaking his promise to me? Understand that he's putting our only child in danger? Understand what? That he is condoning having some strange man taking my child away?" She pinned the man—for despite physically appearing to be anything but—he was most definitely one with agonized, tear-filled gaze. She wished, in her heart, that she had ignored the door that day. That she had taken her son and simply went on a vacation. That she had been anywhere but at home when this guest came calling.

"What am I supposed to understand?" she whispered hoarsely, her throat raw now that she'd given vent to her emotions. In the back of her mind, she's grateful her son wasn't going to be around for a while. Her little tuna-fish has never seen her lose control and it's not something she wanted him to ever see. It was enough that he has seen her in tears when she succumbs to her loneliness. It would not do to burden him with her rage. It was not something a child should ever witness.

His voice, eerie child-like and sweet still conveyed a sense of sympathy she had not expected. His small hands—delicate and small—touched hers briefly.

"All that and more. He told me that you will understand, he trusts that you will."

Nana shook her head as if she did it often enough, quickly enough, she could deny everything happening around her. She wanted to hug denial into her breast and hold it close. She wanted to close her eyes and forget everything that happened to her when she woke up that morning. She wanted to turn back the hands of time and demand that her husband pen his vow in blood. She wanted time to stop and allow her to think. Most of all she wanted a way to stop the truth that seemed determined to wrench everything she cared for from her.

Her voice trembled with the tears she continued to quietly shed. Tears enough to choke her breath and increase the pain writhing inside of her. "Why him? My husband assured me that he wasn't in line. That he would never be—he promised that he would do everything to keep us out of that world."

"He tried valiantly to keep that promise. He tried until the very last possible second to prevent this from happening. But this was inevitable."

She stared at her kitchen, her quite safe space and wondered why its usual magic wasn't reaching her. Why it hasn't given her the usual warmth she could usually count on whenever she was surrounded by its familiar tools and spaces. She stared unseeing at everything around her and tried to recall the words that she told herself all those years ago when her husband first breached the truth about the world he inhabited—the world that owns him more than his own wife and child ever would.

Her voice, when she spoke was weary, but not bitter. Sad, resigned and worried, yes, but not truly enraged and the man-child who had to witness it all wondered how she could remain so forgiving in the midst of what could easily have been her worst nightmare come to life.

"I've already accepted his devotion to his duty. I've resigned myself to fact that he will spend more time away from us but that was okay because he promised it was the only way he could keep our son out of that world. And now, now you come here and tell me this. Isn't there someone else? _Anyone else_? " she asked pensively.

"There is no one else. Your son is the last descendant. He is the last direct descendant of the founder of the famiglia."

Her eyes stared right at her unwanted caller and wished she could convince him that her little Tsunayoshi couldn't be the one he wanted. She looked deep into this mysterious man-child and willed him to understand that he must've made some mistake even as her own voice falters with resignation and fear. "My son is a simple boy—just a simple, clumsy child...so unaware of the dangers the world could bring. You ask for the impossible. He can't be—he—you don't understand…my son is so simple, so gentle—so very gentle…he's just a child…"

"Your son has been taking care of himself for fifteen years now. And he has spent more years being bullied than he hasn't. He has seen danger and lived through it. Believe me when I say that I have faith he will be a great man someday. I promise you—I am here to return your son to you, Sawada Nana."

The words caught her by surprise. Wiping the trail of tears on her cheeks with the back of her hand, she stared at the man-child sitting calmly in front of her and stated warily, "My son has always been here—"

"No. Your son has spent the better part of his life held back. Tethered and chained. I am here to set him free."

"I don't understand—"

"You will. As soon as I begin, you will understand. All I ask is that you entrust your son into my hands."

* * *

**Title Translation: UN TACITO ACCORDO = "A SILENT AGREEMENT"**


	10. Trattare Con Il Diavolo

Authors Note: Standard disclaimer applies whenever the question of ownership arises. KHR isn't mine. Now as for this story, I am happy to note that I am taking my time thinking about how Tsuna and the others would meet and the delicate question of flames and its role in their lives. I cannot just NOT write about it—it wouldn't be right. So I am easing myself towards it. Sorry if I seem so uncertain, but as I mentioned before—I want to explore their humanity more than their collective 'super powers.' I am certainly curious about Reborn's inner monologue all throughout the story.

On a side note though, I am eager to think about the other members of Tsuna's family.

* * *

_**Chapter Ten:**_

**TRATTARE CON IL DIAVOLO**

"_**Each player must accept the cards life deals him or her: but once they are in hand,**_

_**He or She alone must decide how to play the cards in order to win the game. "**_

_Voltaire_

* * *

_**TSUNAYOSHI**_

The long walk home was one he had made hundreds of times and in a hundred different frames of mind and states of being. He had gone through the same street, the same shortcuts, the same alleys and back ways and yet each and every single time was different. Today certainly, was not an isolated case—he has run home a few times before—today just marked the one time he didn't do so while in tears, covered in bruises or dripping from whatever foul matter his tormentors decided to decorate him in.

He had made himself take as many side routes, pacing his tread so as not to appear harried or worse-guilty. He took his time to breathe and take in the views afforded to him by his hastily and obviously desperate attempt at forgetting. He found it ironic that the only time he could relax whilst walking in his own town would be the few and far between instances when he is certain he wouldn't encounter anyone that knows him or of him.

He stayed away from the business district and certainly made no move towards the arcade where distractions and means to while away the hours were plentiful. He was trying to forget the day's less than stellar result-but he wasn't degenerate enough (or reckless enough) to reward himself for skipping out of class. He knows that he would be reprimanded by both the school and his parent but for the moment, the peace and solitude he bought for himself was all that he could think of. He would worry about the other things—all the other things—when the time comes. For now, he would gather his tattered spirit and his composure. He doesn't want to go home with any visible sign of strain or anger inside him.

Home's the only place I could find peace. I will not taint it with all the drama that school already has. Even someone like me deserves a place to be safe and be myself.

The house loomed just a few feet away and somehow the familiar sight eased the ache gnawing at him since he slipped out of school. Wincing reflexively at the possible sound it might make, he pushed the gate open and sighed when it barely gave out a faint squeak. Reaching into one of his many pockets, he took out his house key and fitted it into the lock. He knew his mother was usually out during this time of day and cowardly as that might be he was thankful he didn't have to explain. Toeing off his shoes, he quickly made it up the stairs and into the relative coolness and solitude of his room.

Once inside he allowed his bag to slide off his shoulders and drop unheeded to the floor where it promptly caused him to trip when he took a single step towards his closet. Chagrin and resigned to his life's many ironies, he changed out of his sweat-soaked uniform and into a pair of sweatpants and shirt.

Sighing, he made his way to his bed and gratefully stretched out, his eyes closing as his body finally relaxed for the first time since he woke that morning. His exhausted body so consumed his conscious mind that it failed to recognize the usual frisson of awareness that tickled at his senses. He sank into exhausted slumber, barely making a fuss when his muddled mind belatedly acknowledge what his senses has been telling him—that the house didn't exactly feel empty at all. He was certainly in no frame of mind to make his body move or even care as his worn-out body simply shut down and plunged him into deep sleep, his lips forming words he was certainly no longer aware of saying and no one but a single soul was able to hear.

"…_not as he appears…"_

* * *

_**REBORN **_

He took another contemplative sip of the surprisingly good brew and wondered if the woman sharing the kitchen space with him heard the words. He doubts it, but nothing about his current assignment proved to be quite according to protocol. He noticed that Decimo's mother was now seemingly calm but tears once again rimmed her eyes and her cheeks remained pale. Time to give her something to distract her from her dark and decidedly morose mindset.

"Your son is home."

The rouse proved to be surprisingly effective. The woman looked up swiftly towards the door. She jumped to her feet and tried valiantly to smooth down her hair and wipe the faint traces of tears still left on her cheeks. Her frantic attempt slowed down as her mind contemplated ideas as to why her child would be home. He didn't mind the tears but he would rather not be subjected to constant displays of it either.

"What! But school is—"a quick turn of her head to consult the clock made her mutter worriedly, "he shouldn't be here. Classes aren't out yet. I wonder if something happened…"

He cast a brief glanced at the direction of the energy he sensed and assessed the nature of the body that entered the house. It didn't escape his attention that the boy managed to do that without disturbing him. If his bag hadn't thumped against the floor and if the bed's springs hadn't squeaked when he lay down, he might've missed him for a few more minutes. _Sloppy on his part, really, but promising for his would-be student. Most promising._

"Calm yourself. He is not sick nor is he wounded."

"Oh…that's—that's good…"

He glanced at the woman who has finally gathered her composure back in control and decided that further information about his future student wouldn't hurt. The dossier he carried with him certainly never revealed that the mother was as not as unaware as the child regarding their current situation.

"But I am curious as to why he is here and not where he is expected to be. I take it this isn't the first time he has done such a thing."

A sad, melancholic look flashed in her red-rimmed eyes and she shook her head. Her lips pursed in a weary half smile. "No, sadly this isn't the first time he ran home after something bad happened in school. I thought, at least now that he's in middle school it wouldn't happen anymore."

"It would be unseemly for a future leader to have such a nature. I would see that this would be the last time."

"Mr. Reborn..." she began hesitantly but the sound of the cup settling against the saucer with a bright clink made her pause and look up. He held her gaze for a few minutes.

"Call me Reborn. No Mr. Just Reborn will be fine."

She nodded before her eyes once again dropped to her lap and fiddled with her hands. Her words when it came, was soft and halting. "Well then, Reborn…what happens now? What am i supposed to do?"

"Be there for him. Like you've always been. Now, more than every Decimo would need your steadfast nature. He will need your strength and the comfort of home. His world will become fraught with dangers and challenges. He needs someone who will remain constant in his life and one place where he will always feel safe."

"Is there no other way?"

"None. Not for this famiglia. Your son is all that stands between oblivion and salvation for them. Without him-the Vongola would cease to exist."

With a final brush of her hands, she stood and walked towards the sink, bracing her hands against the counter and stared at the yard outside with unseeing eyes. "I still don't understand how a child could accomplish all that you're saying. I can't see how my child could mean so much to your world. He's just a tiny pebble in the sea that is your world."

"We assign value to those that make ripples in the sea of our lives. Whether it is the kind that threatens us, repels us, entice us or pull us in-only we can decide. Your son is the pebble that's going to disturb the still waters of the Underworld."

He jumped from his seat and made a move towards the living room. He thought it best to give both mother and child time to settle themselves before he made himself known. There will be time enough after that. He knows he will have his student all to himself in the days to come. And Decimo's mother certainly needs to get into the practice of keeping her serenity around her son.

"Now go and be a mother to your son. He will need you more than before. Give him the very best memories of home and childhood he can steal away from time. It would have to last him for a very long while."

* * *

_**NANA**_

She had to make the act good. She must never show him her turmoil. She must be strong. Her little tuna-fish has been trying to be strong for her for so long-keeping his smiles radiant and carefree for her for years. If it meant her little tuna fish would finally get to grow. She could do this. It was a small price to pay, really.

"Tsu-kun! I just got a call from school! You went home in the middle of class again! Did something happen today?"

"Mom! You can't just barge into my room like that!"

"Are you in trouble again Tsu-kun?"

"No, Mom."

"Will you tell me if you were?"

"Mom…please…"

"Oh I'm sorry dear. But I'm worried. What are you going to do in the future?"

"The future-!"

"Tsu-kun, what am I going to do with you? I mean I'm not expecting you to go to a top-notch university or college but- what do you want to do with yourself. You have to start thinking about these things you know…"

* * *

_**TSUNAYOSHI**_

The usual banter didn't bother him. But that final question did. It wasn't as if he didn't think about the future. It's just that with such a reputation and a very real possibility that he would be staying out in the same time for the foreseeable future-it was safe to surmise that he wouldn't actually amount to much no matter what he did.

He couldn't count on the possibility that people would soon forget the hateful nickname. People's cruelty lingered far longer in the mind than any kindness. That much he knows first-hand. He couldn't honestly answer his mother without causing her distress and that's something he would never consciously do.

So engrossed was he in the thoughts inside his head that he barely caught the words that came from her lips next.

"…that's why I decided to call him and hes-!"

"Call what? Mom, what are you talking about?"

"Well, you see there was this funny ad I found in the mailbox this morning. It's about a home tutor and they said that as long as there's food and lodging in the offing then they would teach how to become a great leader in the future. Isn't that nice dear, and so I gave them a call and—"

"Moooom!"

It was all he could do really and had to resist the urge to face-palm in front of her mother. She would only ask him about the reason if he did. Even he, clueless and dense as he was, could tell the ad was a scam. His cheerfully naïve and trusting mother didn't even have a clue!

"But Tsu-kun. The tutor is already here."

"What?!"

"_**Ciaossu."**_

"What the—mom! You got an infant to be my tutor?! That's—!"

Whatever he would say was lost in the blinding pain that suddenly gripped him and to his utter shock, he found himself lying face down on the floor of his room, his arms pinioned behind him and his eyes staring right smack at the shiny toes on a pair of genuine Italian leather shoes.

"Who are you calling an infant Dame Tsuna? My name is Reborn. And I will be your tutor."

"A baby tutor? Even I can't be that pathetic!" he tried to get up only to have his face smushed into the carpet when the baby decided to kick him on the head. "Oww! Hey!"

"Who says I'm just a tutor? I am a hitman. Now get off your ass. Time to get started.

* * *

**Title Translation: TRATTARE CON IL DIAVOLO = "DEALING WITH THE DEVIL"**


End file.
